


The Clouds Have Missed You, My Angel

by comets_nix



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: After Apocalypse, After the Movie, Alcoholism, Cussing, Depressing, Drinking, Sad, Self-Harm, old, recovery fic, ripping feathers out, slight trigger warning i think, someone help this angel, warrens recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9780236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comets_nix/pseuds/comets_nix
Summary: All his life, Warren Worthington III has had something to hurt and bleed over. Something to pluck his feathers one by one from his crying, aching wings for. Something that ate at his brain, and itched in his bones. There might have been a few years of simple peace and happiness when he was younger, but he can't quite remember anymore.He was pulled from the plane. Brought back to the mansion.And his recovery is as slow, painful, and grueling as anyone thought.





	

Warren first learned about his wings when he was young. Around six or seven, he can’t quite remember anymore. Hell, maybe he was twelve or thirteen, who fucking knows. But he remembers the horrible aches he woke up with at 10:24 PM cramping his back and burning his spine like hot coals. He had thought he was dying, and screamed and cried into his pillow; his toes curling and fingers gripping the blankets that were thrown off of him. He powered through it, hoping it would go away. He fell asleep for a few minutes here and there, but was quickly woken back up again from the horrid pains. And they did fade out, eventually, around three in the morning when he quickly fell asleep from being so worked up all night. Yay, no need to wake mom and dad! In the morning, however, he was struck with an odd feeling against his shoulder blades, and turned to see two very un-human limbs jutting from his body. He hadn’t wanted to tell his parents. He couldn’t be one of… THEM, could he!? It wasn’t fair, it couldn’t be true! He couldn’t be the very thing his parents despised and would hate him for. But he was, and Warren soon learned how to fend for himself and stay hidden from the eyes of society.  
Warren first learned to fly when he was only fifteen. And it was to escape his father, who had finally lost it and wanted him gone. He had jumped from the 12th story window in a panic as his father ran behind him with fury and a screaming voice, fists clenched ready to beat Warren into the floor.  
There was nothing quite like it, he thinks now.   
It really wasn’t that high for a plummet to the streets, but to Warren?  
He had felt the wind for how it truly is like no one ever has, and felt the power that he never knew he had in his 18 foot wingspan. In those two seconds of falling, arms out and lungs frozen, he spread his wings and took off, into the sky; leaving his whole life behind. No more father, no more self hatred, no more angry screams and disappointments and being considered an abomination. Now he obeyed the sky, and current of the wind. Now he looked down upon the earth and realized that right here, in the sea of blue and white that was Earths atmosphere, was where he belonged. Warren was fifteen when he discovered freedom for the first time: wind beneath his wings and the sky above his head.  
Warren is only 19 when he loses a part of himself he will never get back. When his wings have grown with his body and now reach a full 22 feet across, he has lost everything he believed in. He has lost the sky. He has lost the sun. He has lost the feeling of what it is to fly. To be free. To be unique. He now sits alone in the old abandoned barn, stealing alcohol at night and spending his days passed out and puking. Humans have ruined him. He was supposed to be a hero. He was and angel! Why didn’t they understand!? His wings were magnificent! He was strong, he could help the world, be good! But what have they done to him? Exactly what his father did. They looked at him with disgust, calling him a freak and throwing rocks and bottles at him until he was forced back into the sky, flying far away never to return.  
He sits in the darkened barn, drinking away the stolen vodka and focusing on the burning it brings down his throat. He tries to let the alcohol do its job, let it numb him into drunkenness like it always did. Let it take away.  
Only tonight things are different, and it’s not working. He can’t get it to stick, to take over his mind and release his body from the weight of the world. Before Warren knows it, he’s crying. He scolds himself, hating the fact that he has cracked under the pressure of simply life so easily. He thinks himself as weak; and as the thick tears of being lost and full of regret flow down his heated pink cheeks, he throws the bottle down. He pays no attention to the loud crack of shattering glass it sends throughout the barn.  
He sits up, on his knees, and grabs a hand full of his left wings secondaries. He can’t think right now. His father is in his head, screaming names at him and cursing his existence. The humans are in his head, calling him a demon despite the wings and throwing rocks and glass and wood at him. The entire world is in his head, spitting poison at him and not letting him escape. He is in a cage, and birds should never be in cages.  
So he gives the feathers a rough tug unconsciously. And as they pop out, the skin turning red with small pin points of blood, his head clears and he gasps.  
He is fine now, the voices are gone, the memories have faded, he can finally feel the alcohol in his racing heart as his brain focuses on the wing. He sighs, breathes in, and breathes out. In, out. There we go. Warren can think, Warren can breathe. All better; focus on the wing.  
But just as he let the four feathers go, dropping them to the floor, they started up again, Warren panicking himself all over once more with thoughts of 'They’ll come back, 'I’ll be weak again,’ 'It didn’t work, I was an idiot-’  
So he takes another handful, and rips another one out.  
And again. And again. Over and over, he cries out loud, filling the barn with choking sobs and a snotty breaths as he breathes heavily in a panic, switching from wing to wing and ripping feather after feather out, until he can possibly take no more. The floor around him is covered in the white of his wings, but it is blurry to him as tears sit in his eyes. He spreads his wings a little, and sees way more skin that he should. He shouldn’t see any skin at all, in fact, but now only a small percentage of feathers remain, and the gaping holes between them are bloody and swollen, red and irritated from being so forcefully plucked.  
Warren sighs with relief, and collapses to the floor in his own mess. He folds his wings in, bathing in the pain it brings from the sore skin. And in only minutes, he is asleep. Nightmare free.  
Warren is only 19 when he learns to hate humans; to not trust the world. Warren is only 19 when he learns how to hurt himself.   
***  
Warren Worthington the Third is a fighter. He has always been a fighter. He is strong in every way, mentally and physically. When he was first taken and stolen from the sky, thrown in the cage to fight for the filthy humans, he hated his life. He wanted out, wanted to be free again. Don’t cage a bird and make him perform. He was sloppy at first, not knowing how to fight and defend himself, not knowing how to win.  
But when the cheering finally reaches his ears a few days later, and he turns from the first person he’s ever killed to see all those people applauding for him, PROUD of him, he begins to change his mind. Day after day, fight after fight, he now works hard and wins every single one. He becomes the most popular mutant, the attendance of the ring boosting as everyone had come to see Berlins own Angel of Death fight and kill. He feels powerful once again, and there is no stopping Warren as he slashes and cuts his way through fights. Winning. Succeeding. The memories of the night he plucked his feathers nearly empty now, long gone from his brain.  
Until that stupid blue boy freak showed up, and ruined everything. Warren had been so distracted, never having seen anything like Kurt before. He danced around with him in the cage, for once not wanting to attack. He loved watching Kurt, the way the helpless boy tried and tried to escape. He thought the blue kid must be an idiot to think he can just poof and teleport out. But he enjoys it. He enjoys the way this strange mutant is so afraid of him when Warren as simply done nothing, and how he can so easily affect him. So when the gun clicks next to Warren on the other side of the cage, a warning as it’s loaded, he snaps out of it.  
He screams at Kurt to fight, or they’ll kill them both.  
And as he watches in slow motion as the kids fangs slowly appear, whiter than Warren would think, he hesitates.  
And it costs him his life. The blue boys tail is around his neck in a second, and Warren is thrown from reality and brought back ten feet in the air against the fence. He slides down with the kid, and all he can hear is not the roars of the crowd, but the sizzling and snapping of his feathers as his wing is burned and broken. He wants to stay on the floor of the cage, wants to lay and beg to God that that did not just happen… but he gets up anyway. He spreads the left wing, and the sight brings back that night.  
Broken feathers.  
Hurt wings.  
Nothing new to him, he realizes.  
He wants to kill Kurt. He wants to tear him apart limb from limb and throw his pieces out into the crowd for them to stomp on and forget, grind into the cement of the floor.  
But the power goes out, and all Hell breaks lose. 'Forget blue-boy, lets get out of here.’  
And he does. For the first time in months, Warren makes it outside. For the first time he feels the cold shock of clean night air; no more stufy, hot, cage arena fighting air that has been breathed in too much for the little ventilation and now tastes like drunk breath and hot death. For the first time in months, Warren looks up at the clouds and remembers just how big the world is. For the first time in months, he spreads his wings and jumps, feeling the wind in his face yet again as if it never left. It greets him, says it’s missed him. Begs him to fly home to the wide open atmosphere; it welcomes him with open arms.   
For the first time in months, Warren sees the sky once more.  
***  
He didn’t know how he ended up in the warehouse. But there he was, up in the rafters. He wanted to be outside, under the sky that he missed to much, but the guards are out and hunting down their mutants to take back. So he hides in for the night, and promises that he will leave tomorrow before the sun rises. If he can get in the air, that is. Which brings Warren to his next thought- his left wing. He opens it, and sees the blackened, charred feathers that are snapped and ruined. He stares at it for a while, and cracks open a bottle of beer.  
***  
It’s a long night for poor Warren. But he doesn't mind. He didn’t get a 'night time' in the cage. Now windows meant no sun. No sun meant no work schedule. It had been every five hours: you fight. If you’re good: it’s every eight.  
So Warren sits in the dark, staring out at the moon over Berlin as he drinks away, now numb and drunk. He thinks back to all those mutants he had killed. How many had been like him? How many were there against their will? How many were secretly just scared and wanted to go home like him? He shivered at the thought, and took another swig.  
He loses his balance for a split second- which NEVER happens to Warren. So when he’s sitting fine one minute, and accidentally leaning the wrong direction the next, he shoots his wings out to even out and catch himself before falling. The bad one hits the rafter, the nearly exposed bone smacking into the wood. Warren cries out, and drops his bottle as he stands to hold on to the wood beam. He grits his teeth, tasting his tongue as he breathes in through the searing pain of his nearly limp wing. He lets out a yell of frustration, jumping from the rafter he’s on to one below him, flapping although his wings scream at him not to. He cries out, unknowing whether it’s from sadness or anger. Warren is not thinking when he reaches over and plucks a feather from the good wing, but he is when he does it again. The hot pricks of pain drown out his embarrassment and anger, focusing on the little blood that is gathering between the quills.  
After the few minutes of slow ripping and feather picking, Warren finds his last beer and opens it. Just has he relaxed again, sitting as comfortably as he could and examining the result of the damage below him that litters the ground, they showed up.  
They tried to convince him to join their stupid four-man group and take over the world. 'What crap,' he thought. He had turned form them, wanting to be alone. No more mutants. No more fighting. Just leave him alone, go away. He closed his eyes as he sipped from the bottle. And the next thing he knew, his ribs were breaking, twisting to fit something that didn’t belong, and Warren watched with pained eyes as the last feathers he would ever look at on his beautiful wings fell to the floor, never to fly with him again.  
And soon, Warren had no need for self mutilation. Because he had something so much better. And as he walked with Apocalypse that night, he let whatever remaining part of himself, whatever remaining part that made up Warren Worthington the Third, slip away. He let it slip away to be left behind with his last feathers. And he joined his new family to take what was theirs.  
***  
Warren loved Apocalypse.  
He loved him like an idol. Like a father. Like his hero. Because Apocalypse was all Warren had, and Apocalypse cared about Warren.  
He did what the God said. He served him, obeyed him, followed him with the other horsemen and walked in his path, mesmerizing at his glory as he so easily took what he wanted. Warren wished he could have been more like Apocalypse in the past.  
And he was eternally thankful for being picked up by him. Given this chance. The god had so easily walked into Warrens life and made him so much stronger, more powerful. And soon he became Warrens entire world. The new presence in his head, Apocalypse sitting there observing and praising him, became and addiction to Warren. A comfort. He wondered how he had ever been able to live before with out him; it felt as if Apocalypse was meant for that space in his head. As if his brain had been saving that small part of itself, just for Apocalypse to take over and be with him in their wrath upon the world.  
'I belong here. YOU belong here. In my mind.’ Warren thought, and the god had praised him gently. Said he would give Warren the world. Told him how strong he was, his Horseman. His loyal follower. His child. He was Warrens, and Warren was his. And Warren believed his persuading words.  
It is only days later when Warren realizes his terrible mistake. And it is on his way down to the ground in his last few seconds of life.  
He had followed Apocalypses orders; he had fought the X-Men and protected his leader, his God. But he had failed, and all he had time to think of is how scared he is in those last moments. How scared he is to leave the world he so happily helped ruined and would destroy in a minute. How scared he is to leave the world that ruined him, and to leave the god that saved him.  
Who would have thought. An Angel dying in a plane crash trying to help En Sabah Nur take over the globe. What an idiot he was.  
But there is no time for that as he is engulfed in fire so hot he is gone in seconds. Warren Worthington the Third is no more. And while he lays in the wreckage of his deathbed, he swears he can hear Apocalypse calling him useless. Disowning him. Forgetting Him. Walking away, stepping out of his mind.  
But that can’t be right, can it? Apocalypse loved him, this was a mistake. He didn’t want this, he says. It was an accident, don’t leave me…  
He is dead. Warren has died failing at his only mission. 'What a fool I was.’ He thinks, and lets himself slip away. Dying isn’t as hard as it sounds, he realizes.  
***  
Warren didn’t know how long he was dead, before his eye lids fluttered open. He had been dreaming… Dreaming of flying, no- soaring. He had been soaring, floating, through the wide endless sky. He could not see the world beneath him, nor could he feel it. But Warren in his dream didn’t question it. En Sabah Nur was there with him, behind his face in his simple mind and guiding him. His presence flickered, sometimes disappearing. But Dream Warren didn’t mind, he realizes now. Dream Warren had flown on, the sun nowhere to be found but the sky bright as day. The sea of blue atmosphere, clouds and feathers as one. Dream Warren was home, he was sure. But how could that be allowed? Surely after all he’d done… all he’d killed, he couldn’t be allowed a Heaven, right? But there he was; Dream Warren flying on with the wind to nowhere, his god visiting every now and then to keep him steady.  
So when Warrens eyes flicker open, the beautiful reality fading away as his eyes focus on the smokey, dead, grey sky above him, he is pretty sure he’s crying. Whatever god is out there has realized its mistake, he thinks. It has put him in the hell he deserves. Sorry, no Heaven for you kid. No matter how angel you are.  
And it takes a few minutes of watching the snow falling over him to- wait, he thinks. That is no snow. This is… oh, right. Smoke. Ash. He had forgotten he has burned. Which brings Warren to his next thought: where was he? Could he move? Had he even tried yet? Maybe he should lay here, fall back asleep. Maybe he could go back to his heaven, with his wings and his god and his sky.  
But now Warren can feel his body, and oh- that does not feel right. Something on top of him, something dead and heavy and cold. He blinks once. Twice. Look down Warren, what is that over you? So he twitches his fingers, then turns his head. Sand. Soft ash.  
He breathes too close to it, taking in the burning remains of the ground and coughing violently as his throat burns like coals. And his ribs shift abnormally, not the way ribs are supposed to shift, he thinks. It hurts, and as the seconds tick past he becomes more aware. His chest is on fire, his legs are like ice. Not good, he thinks. But when has Warren ever deserved good?  
He coughs as he breathes, the bones of his torso and arms hurting worse than anything, as if someone has taken a hammer to every one of his bones and muscles, and he looks down at his body finally. He lifts his head as best as he can, and immediately vomits. As he is turned to his side in the shock of his stomach retching- spitting and gagging as whatever was in his stomach now flows around him down the small piles of dirt and debris in a wet puddle that reeks of acid- he feels his eyes burn with tears. He watches as his own vomit gathers in some places, a messy, reeking pile of red and white and something thin and clear that stings in his nose.  
Warren takes in a breath as he falls down onto his back again, but remembers something. He remembers his wings. 'Where are they!?' He thinks, and finally manages to reach around and feel for his shoulder blade; his chest screaming in protest and his suit tightening and pulling uncomfortably. His teeth grind and he squeezes his eyes shut at the pain, but his fingers finally graze over the familiar metal bones protruding from his back, and an exhausted sigh is let from his mouth.  
After a moment or two of laying in dull pain, motionless, Warren realizes he is not falling back asleep. He moves again, and can feel his skin tighten with burns and stiffness. Something is on the side of his face, but he leaves it. It took a long while of crying out and gasping in pain, having to stop every few seconds so he wouldn't pass out, before Warren is out from under the metal and wreckage.  
His legs don’t feel right, he notices. They tingle with numbness, and are much too heavy. And as Warren rolls over to stand on his hands and knees, he can feel how heavy the metal wings are, as he is unable to move them. Something is wrong, but he can not bring himself to look up at the damage done to his body.  
Whatever. He is dead anyway. This is it. This is his hell and he can not fix it, so he let it be. He falls down, probably in the vomit but he doesn’t care about that either, and closes his eyes. His face lays in the sharp dirt, the stinging of his puke in the back of his throat and up in his nose. There is silence around him, and he leaves life be as he finally slips away once more. Goodbye to his hell. Maybe he will see it again. But right now he closes his eyes, lays in the awkward, painful position as his wings fall dead and his heart slows down.  
He is fine with this. Death is okay again. He won’t hurt, he realizes, and welcomes the heavy weight of eternal sleep, hoping to see his blue sky heaven once more. 'Just a few more seconds,’ he begs.  
***  
It is four months later when Warren opens his eyes. Four months he had been dead. Gone from the world. But these idiots… they had brought him back. Re-entered his miserable soul onto the filthy planet he had so easily helped ruin. And he doesn’t want to believe it. 'Please, tell me I’m still dead, tell me this is Hell and I can slip away again-’ he begged the blue mutant doctor man at his bedside. How evil of his mind to make it the mutant from the fight, he thinks. His enemy, taking care of him. Not cool. Hell must be funny like that, he wonders.  
'We’re sorry Warren. But you never died, you’re right here, with us.’  
Warren doesn’t ask how they know his name. No one has called him that in years, and he forgets it happened immediately. He turns his head and chokes down a swallow, his throat as dry as the Egyptian desert he misses terribly.  
'No,’ he cries, and fuck it, his tears are out and there is no stopping it now. He coughs, and grips the sheets at his side. His arms are limp, along with his legs. 'No, leave me alone… get away-’ he whispers, closing his eyes to be-rid of this horrible reality.  
'Warren-’ the blue man says again, but Warren is gone before he knows it. Dead Again.  
***  
Warren is hyper aware the next time he awakens, only two days later. He knows immediately that he is in real life this time, and wonders if he had ever been dead to begin with… There is no one in his room- which he now sees is a hospital- and he can sit up. He grunts and sighs when he is upright, and looks around. The previous dream state he was in is now gone. His eyes are focused, he can breathe clearly, and his bones feel lighter. He coughs once, and clears his now smoother throat.  
'Strange,’ he thinks. The room is silent other than his own breaths. He looks down at his legs, and sees them covered with this hospital sheets. He looks under them, and sees his suit is gone. He is in only underwear, and doesn’t want to think about how that happened. How someone would have had to of seen him naked and dead, and then would have-  
'Shut it, brain.’  
Warren then examines the rest of his body, not nearly as painful as he had been in his last hell. His hands are wrapped, only the fingers visible, and he cant move them. The skin feels weird, and he scared to see whats underneath.  
He lets them be, and moves on. Glad to see his chest is as he left it: cage scars still there in their places, but his muscle is now completely gone. Minimal bruising, some band aids and wraps, and nothing too bad. Good, he can slip out of this stupid hospital and fly away, back to Egypt to find Apocalypse and tell him how sorry he was. How he wanted him back and promised to fight better. 'I’m here again,’ He’d smile up at him. And Apocalypse would take Warren in his arms and enter his mind-  
His mind.  
Warren feels empty when he notices Apocalypses presence is missing, and immediately feels incomplete. 'I can fix that,’ He thinks. 'I just have to find him. And then the horsemen and us will continue on, he will heal me and it will be okay again. I’ll fight harder and he will forgive me because I am loyal and he needs me. It will be better, I will be home.’  
It’s when Warren goes to smile at the thought that he realizes something is very, very wrong.  
His face. His burned, scarred, torn face.  
He can’t move his jaw more than a centimeter. It is wrapped- held in place. He clearly wasn’t supposed to be moving it, and when he lifted his hand to feel what exactly had his face restrained, he froze.  
He could tell it was bandages, and they were thick. Soft. Meant for serious wounds- wounds like burns that needed motionless care and time to heal. Warren swallowed his building worry, and pushed the thoughts out of his mind. The stupid doctor mutant probably overreacted and didn’t know how tough Warren was; probably only a bad scrape or cut gone a little numb and swollen. He manages to swing his legs over the side of his bed, but when his feet touch the floor he winces and jumps back. His feet felt… weird, freezing cold and oddly sensitive. Warren shakes his head a little and tries again, this time being able to support his weight.  
He sways a little, and his eyes black out with momentarily dizziness. But this is nothing new to Warren, and he thinks of it as just a hangover. As he takes a step, away from the bed and across the cold tile floor, he notices something else very, very wrong.  
He has no wings.  
His back is bare. Nothing. Gone. Thick bandaging covers his entire shoulder blades when he slowly reaches back with a shaky hand, and Warren can’t hold in the blood curdling scream that rips from his throat and tears through the halls.  
***  
Warren stayed at the mansion. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because the professor that Apocalypse had so desperately wanted to get his hands on- Charles was his name- had gotten into his head one night. Or maybe Storm- Ororo- had influenced him without Warren realizing. Or maybe he was scared of seeing his father again, of the cage finding him and kidnapping him once more. Maybe he was just smart and knew he couldn’t make it on his own. Whatever it was. Warren didn’t care. His former enemies gave him a room, and he took it. He locked the door, hiding himself; and refused to leave unless it was between the hours of 1 and 3 AM.  
He drank.  
He sat in the dark.  
He ate every other two days- but threw it up just minutes later and laid gagging and coughing on the bathroom floor, tear filled eyes and blurry thoughts.  
And that was about it for Warren. This was his life. 'Apocalypse would be so disappointed-’ He thought. But Apocalypse didn’t matter anymore. Not after what these people had told him. Warren had no purpose; no wings, no God to serve and look up to, no family. Hell, he didn’t even have a mutation anymore.  
His back had healed, but the skin over his wing sockets was red and inflamed. They itched liked they wanted to come out- like they're were right there, ready for Warren once more, but they never did.  
Warren had nothing but a cold floor, a messy bed, and alcohol to numb is broken body and heavy soul.  
So Warren still sat in the dark, and Warren still drank.  
***  
It had started off terrible. Warren had collapsed to the floor, feeling his wings gone, and Hank had rushed in followed by two doctors he’d never seen before. Warren screamed and punched at them best he could, fighting and reeling back when they put their hands on him. He yelled over their pleads for him to calm down, he would HURT himself for Christ’s sake, and he didn’t listen.  
It took twenty minutes and 48 seconds for Warren to calm down and collapse to the floor. A true fighter even when injured and weak.  
After Warren was sedated and put back on the bed on his stomach, he had watched through teary eyes as Hank peeled back the thick cotton coating his back and cleaned the open stitches. He looked away when the bloody bandages were laid in front of him on the table. His head hurt, his whole body hurt. He kept squirming because things did not feel right, and God, his face was killing him, what the hell!?  
"You did this." He spat through spit and snot, looking in the doctors direction.  
"You did this to yourself. We didn’t want to fight you.’ the doctors voice was calm and sweet, and surprised Warren.  
"You broke me."  
"You broke yourself."  
"What happened to my face?" Hank ignored him, and Warren felt his fear. Which then made Warren afraid, so he changed the subject. "Where is he?"  
"Where is who?"  
"En Sabah Nur." Warren could only whisper the name. The doctor paused, and continued on dressing his wounds.  
"Dead. We defeated him."  
Warren froze. His heart stopped, and his throat tightened. "What!?" He hissed, clenching his fists.  
"Warren. He was evil. We had to stop him, he was-"  
"SHUT UP!" Warren screamed, and tried to move but his body was too heavy, and his mind was slipping from the thick medicine. He growled and grit his teeth and Hank stepped back. Warren let out a scream of frustration, and felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'GET OFF OF ME!’ He screamed, and damn it, why couldn’t he just move!?  
'I don’t believe it, you’re lying!’ He said. His nails dug into his palms as he struggled to get free and beat the shit out of this guy, and fuck, his face and head were killing him.  
"Warren, it’s true-"  
"Why am I here!? He wouldn’t let me be taken!"  
"Warren, you nearly died in the plane crash, we thought you were gone until Jean sensed you alive, but just barely! You pinched a nerve in your back, take it easy!" Wow. This doctor guy really sounded like he cared, Warren thought. Good acting. But you do not fool me…  
"No, NO!" He was screaming, and the doctor sighed.  
"Warren, he saw you die. He didn’t care. I know he like, meant something to you, but-"  
"YOU DON’T KNOW ANYTHING!" This guy had no idea- no idea what Warren went through. What he was willing to do for Apocalypse.  
Hank gave up at that, and just then the door flew open, and in walked a red head, the laser guy from the fight, and-  
Storm!?  
Warren hesitated when he saw her, and his eyes went wide with confusion.  
"Angel?" she asked, looking sadly at him.  
"Traitor," he hissed lowly, and Storm frowned.  
"No, Angel… Apocalypse, he-" Warren cut her off with a whined growl and turned his head back and fourth, not knowing how to move properly or where to look.  
"He’s in bad shape, he doesn’t believe…" The doctor trailed off, and Warren could hear the frown on his mouth.  
"He was loyal?" the red head asked in a whisper.  
"Terribly," Storm replied. Warren squeezed his eyes shut. Why were they talking like he wasn’t there!? What did they know!? What did they do to his god!?’  
It was then Warren found out the redhead’s power; as the images of Apocalypse standing over Warrens unconscious body- calling him useless, sneering at him with disgust, turning his back- filled his vision. And then it was Apocalypse being stabbed and burned; melted away and disintegrated into nothing but ashes; gone in the fire that came from the girl.  
Warren screamed again, and felt the sheets turn wet under his face and beneath waist.  
***  
It is one thing hearing that your only family- your hero, your god- stood and watched you die, walking away from every promise they made as if you meant nothing to them the entire time; and seeing it.  
For four weeks Warren had sat in the hospital room, laying on his sweat filled bed, healing steadily. The doctor- Hank he was told to call him- visited him twelve times a day; sometimes staying for two hours, and sometimes only a few seconds. It was hell for Warren. He lay motionless in the bed, his back burning and his mind dead.  
Apocalypse. Dead.  
Warrens wings. Dead.  
Warrens world. Dead.  
He should be dead right now; rotting away in that plane wreck. Maybe he could see Apocalypse again; be told that everything was ok. That he was needed. Maybe Apocalypse would comfort him again and apologize for not helping; tell him he was busy and feel sorry for leaving Warren. Maybe he could go back the heavenly endless sky, and fly on forever where he belonged.  
But it never happened. Warren didn’t dream, and his mind was terribly lonely.  
What a fool he was, to let someone in so easily. He was torn in half from believing these so called 'X-Men’ that were now taking care of him and know that Apocalypse had manipulated the Horsemen into believing his lies and image of a perfect world. Or to stick with his gut and tell himself that Apocalypse still needed him, that he would come back and he and the others, along side Warren, would tear the world apart once more.  
But after the four weeks, Warren realized that he’s what he always has been.  
He isn’t a fool. He is smart. And his brain tells him that yes, Apocalypse was evil. Didn’t really need Warren. And although his heart screams back that it’s not true, don’t believe the stupid X-Men, Warren knows he has always listened to his brain.  
His heart got him killed.  
***  
It is now just a month since Warrens release from the hospital room and the day he locked himself up.  
Hank had eventually told him why his face was the way it was.  
It had been the most exposed part of him when he went down in the jet. Which explains the now monstrous scars running down the left side of his face. Just another reason to lock himself up. He is as monstrous as it gets. A ruined mutant. A sorry excuse for a soldier. Apocalypse would be so disappointed. Maybe it was best if the god was dead after all.  
It is also a month later when his wings began growing in. They had repeated history, just as Warren clearly remembers, as the pain started late one night. Although he hadn’t been in his soft rich bed and sound asleep at only a young age like last time,(Warren can still feel the soft blankets and giant room when he thinks about it) but had instead been passed out drunk on the floor.  
The rood was dark, only the outline of the window and bed guiding him around as he stumbled and sipped the vodka he can’t remember getting. He was out cold when it first started, and was awoken forcefully just as he had been all those years ago and thrown into a world of pain as his body fixed itself.  
As his body remembered who it was.  
But this time Warren didn’t cry out in pain. Instead, he stayed on the floor as realization of what was happening hit him like a brick wall, and cried and gasped of joy, smiling for this first time in months and showing his teeth in something that wasn’t a snarl of a threat.  
It’s been a long time since he was this happy, he thinks.   
It’s taken a week and a half now, and Warrens wings are exactly half way there. He’s not sure who all knows, but he does know that the Hank guy was excited to see the glorious wings, only a few feet long at the time, when he had caught Warren in the kitchen at 2:34 AM. He’s also not sure how feel about the fact that they are feathers- not metal. Not as dangerous as the former blades, but is that a good thing? He can’t tell. He misses Apocalypse, but yet the very thought of the god churns his stomach and makes him want to rot. He knows he shouldn’t miss him; knows that he needs to move on a forget- Apocalypse didn’t want want him. He shouldn’t want the blades and marks back that Apocalypse gave him, but Warren can’t tell if he misses their heavy weight and cold sharp touch; or if he wants to move on and start over with the soft white feathers of strength.  
He’s kept himself hidden, continuing his daily ritual of sleep in the day. Wake up at dark. Drink drink drink. Don’t answer the door.  
Now this week and a half later, Warren looks at his half grown wings and the nearly full feathers that coat them. The first night the quills began poking through he had been astounded and managed a normal night of sleep- nightmare free and hope in his heart. And he has made sure to take extra care of them. No more sleeping on the floor, no more eating once every 48 hours. He hates it, but Hanks keeps him up to date on the necessary needs to stay alive. If he wanted his feathers thick and wings strong, he was going to have to take care of himself.  
He lightened up the drinking by a few bottles a night. He opened the window a little more on nice days, letting the sun illuminate the dust coated room. And he even ate lunch one day with Ororo, and he’s pretty sure he might have even laughed at something she said.  
Things were turning around, Warren thought.  
Feathers. Wings. Strength. New start. New people. Forgiveness. Hope. Warren never would have thought he would ever deserve any of those in his life- but here he was. With all of them.  
And the Kurt kid? Man, was he something, Warren thought. Strong, yet gentle. Warren wanted to talk to him- wanted to hold him down and grab at that blue skin- yet he couldn’t tell if he wanted to hurt the boy or… or…  
Anyway. Warren was hideous, it didn’t matter. He pranced around Kurt and was careful. He stood behind Ororo when he was around, only daring to stare at him if Kurt was busy with something else. And sometimes Kurt would know and look over at him. But Warren wouldn’t look away. He was conflicted- he wanted kurt and yet was furious with him for no reason. So he stayed away, preying on him from a distance for reasons unknown to Warren.  
It was around two weeks in when Scott opened his mouth to Ororo. Now, Warren had made sure not to get attached to a single person, he had learned his lesson, whether they were his former team mate or not. But when the Summers kid said to her one day while Warren sat with her and the Kurt kid in the cafeteria: "At least I didn’t try to take over the world with a crazy blue guy," he lost it.  
Before Scott could even breathe after he finished his sentence Warren had his hands around his neck, feeling Scotts rigid trachea against his thumbs as he squeezed and threw himself forward. Scott went back off the bench and hit the floor hard, making everyone turn their heads at the sound of his back on the hard wood.  
Warren could hear the others yelling behind him, but ignored their pleads and hands grabbing at his shirt and shoulders as he dug Scotts neck into the ground. His glasses had stayed on, but Warren could tell that the mutant was crying as his face turned beat red and he gagged for air.  
Scotts desperate hands clawed and Warrens, but the angel had such a death grip on his neck his knuckles were white. Scott kicked madly but Warren put all his weight on his knee on Scotts dick, causing the mutant below him to gag and spit more and arch his back in pain and panic. As Warren was leaned over and being ripped at trying to be pulled off of him, he felt his own face blush with adrenaline and pure rage. His hair fell in his eyes and he threw the kids off of him with his wings. Scott made gargled and gaged sounds, spiting with empty breaths as he lips darkened and his hands grew weak.  
It wasn't until Kurt grabbed Warrens shoulder and teleported them away a few feet did Warren snap out of it and look up. He and Kurt sat on the floor, and every student it seemed was gathered around them with wide, terrified eyes. Warren saw Scott on the floor a few feet away, and Jean, Ororo, and some other girl leaned over him as he coughed and choked. Warren could feel Kurt staring at him- terrified- and the angel wasted no time before getting up and storming out, the sea of people spreading for him in an instant.  
He stormed out, small feathers standing on edge making even his half grown wings look giant, and was gone.  
Ororo called after him, but he ignored her and was locked back in his room in no time  
***  
Warren didn’t know what to do with himself. Things had been going better, the X-Men had let him near them and left him alone, knowing not to push him too much. He had begun to feel comfortable, his wings were on their way and people weren’t trying to kill him for once.  
And he had fucked it up all over again.  
Just another reason Warren should never ever get too comfortable in any position. Never even think he could belong somewhere.  
That night Warren lost himself again. His clean streak of normal human behavior and taking care of himself wiped clean.  
He drank as much as he could as fast as he could, and before he knew it the room was dark and he was stuck on the floor. He knew he had to puke, but he kept it down. Let it burn inside just a little bit longer. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall, no one would see him anyway. His stomach was a volcano begging to erupt, his throat a raw chasm chaffed raw with burning liquid. His chest was a boulder of weight and his head was a hurricane that wouldn’t stop spinning.  
He groaned, and lifted his hand to rub his eyes. It was then he felt the scars- the scars that ripped across his face and down his neck. The scars that made him ugly- scary.  
Warren spat on the floor and sat up, ignoring the rush of blood as he moved. he let out a scream of frustration, and threw the bottle in his hands as hard as he could, enjoying the shattering crack in the air as it hit the wall and spilt over the floor.  
And before Warren could stop and breathe- think clearly- he had a hand full of soft new feathers almost full grown, and ripped them out.  
He didn’t even wince at the feeling of his skin ripping as his wings were forcefully plucked with rage. He was on his side now, fallen over from the dizzying drunken state, and ripped away. They popped out of his wings with a quiet snap, the familiar dots of blood growing as no pressure was put to them. He let them bleed, and he continued on.  
Three coverts. Four secondaries. Repeat. He did this for each wing, and only after his eyes were so heavy he knew he would be gone soon did he slow down. He went limp on the floor, sobbing in chokes as he curled his fingers and brought his hands close to his chest. He cried and cried, laying in the piles of half grown feathers, his ruined wings limp beside him. Warren knew they would be bloody and empty when he got up, but there was no going back now. Pointless he was- let him hurt and be ugly. That’s all he was now. He was the ugly angel who had no place in the world. Let him stay on the ground if he keeps this up- don’t fret too much over him.  
Warren didn’t now when he fell asleep, or if he even did. But some time later a knock on his door alerted him, and he looked at the glowing clock.  
1:48 AM. It was pitch black, his eyes adjusted.  
He sat up, and regretted it. His head was killing him, and his wings screamed as if they were burned with sparks like in the cage. Warren wanted to stay silent and let whoever was at the door get bored and move on, but he was given away when he coughed at his dry throat. He gagged and gasped in a breath, feeling the redness of his throat from the previous hours.  
The person knocked again, and Warren moved a little more. He was standing now, holding the desk for support as he scooted for the door. His foot kicked a bottle, and he cursed quietly.  
When Warren opened the wood door with sweaty hands and bony fingers, he was faced with Jean.  
"Warren, I-"  
"Fuck off."  
"I’m sorry, I didn’t think Scott would ever say that, you had a right to do what you did, we understand, we aren’t mad-"  
Warren glared at her, moved his jaw and shifted on his feet. His wings were visible against the hall lights, and Jean stopped when she gasped. 'Warren!’ she looked as if she would cry when she looked at something beside him, and as Warren turned to see what, he froze too.  
His wings were a deep, inflamed pink, and had almost no feathers. The ones they did have were crooked and messy- no condition for an angel. "What happened!?" Jean put a hand to her mouth as she stared in saddened horror at them.  
"Life." Warren spat, and looked at her hard.  
"Oh, Warren, I-" Warren rolled his eyes and stopped her.  
'What do you want?’ He asked with ice in his voice. Jean didn’t answer- couldn’t answer. She could only stare at Warrens poor, poor wings with tears in her eyes, mouth open in a silent cry.  
So Warren shut the door loudly, making her jump out of her thoughts, and crawled in bed. His stomach did flips as he lay down and bent over, and he grit his teeth. He curled up, wings pulled tight, and held his gut. He pushed through the pain that rang in his body and trembled his bones, and managed to calm down.  
He didn’t care about anything right now.  
Not his screaming body. Not the pile of bloody feathers on the floor. Not the messy, stench filled room. Not the stuffy, hot air he was breathing in. Not his aching and crying wings. Nothing.  
It’s a miracle that he falls asleep, and his body relaxes in the dark as his mind finally slips form consciousness.  
Warren is woken at 5:27 AM as his stomach lets go and he violently vomits on the bed. He gasps from shock, and chokes on himself. He’s up on all fours in a second; the thick, yellow acid gathering in a pool between his hands and knees. He coughs and finally breathes, throat clear for a second as he takes in a burning breath. But as tears sting his eyes, and he tries to get up, his stomach clenches again, and the process is repeated.  
He is terribly weak. He wants to get up and run to the shower but can’t. Not yet. So he kneels in his alcohol filled puke and cries silently, wiping his eyes and taking in shaky breaths. A few more gags rip through his body, and he is done.  
He breathes. 'In and out, Warren. Clam down. You’re a dumb ass, now get up and clean yourself off.'  
Okay. He can do this.  
Warren manages to get off the bed, which is now for sure ruined, and stumbles to the bathroom.  
Something isn’t right. When was anything ever right for Warren? He leans over the toilet, but knows he’s finished. He manages to get his shirt off, vomit smearing up his forearms as he does so. He pushes his underwear and pants down to the floor, the knees and bottoms soaked with the same vile substance. He can not think of anything else except for the warm water that he needs to be flowing over him right now- and he finally makes it into the tub.  
He puts the shower on cold, abandoning the warmth since that’s all his body is right now. His wings burn. He head is hot. His chest is both. And God, his throat and lungs…  
Since when was he to not able to hold down his alcohol? This was pathetic. Warren Worthington the Third was no newbie wanna-be-drunk. He knew what he was doing, he shouldn’t be this sick from a simple heavy night.  
But he guessed it wasn’t a simple night, was it? No, this had been going on for, oh, wow, he can’t even remember how long.  
He sits on the cold bathtub floor; his wings folding in behind him as his body soaks with the cold water. Usually his wings wouldn’t fit in the tub- much too big in their glory- and he would have to stand sideways with the curtain open as they hung out. But now, they fit snugly behind him. Their growth was stunted and the skin was practically bare.  
Warren gives himself a few minutes before standing, and grabs whatever sample soaps they gave him when he arrived. He doesn’t know what is shampoo or body wash, but he takes the small colorful bottles and pours all of them into his hands and over his body, his eyes puffy from crying.  
He is silent as he scrubs down, clawing over his arms and legs to rid them of the horrid stench of his own stomach fluid. He washes his shoulders and thighs and stomach. For a split second, his fingers graze his penis in their rush and he freezes. He clenches his jaw, knowing it’s not enough to do anything, but pulls his hand away and rubs his eyes. He forgets that part of himself quickly, focusing on cleaning and hurrying again. He takes the left over soap off his body and scrubs his hair and face with it, rinsing it with the grounding coldness of the shower.  
He stands, letting his body temperature drop under the flow of the water. It clears his head, and for a few minutes he thinks steadily, arms crossed tight as if to hold himself together. When he turns the water off and steps out, he grabs the soft white towel and dries himself, feeling clean for the first time in weeks. His hand slows down when he goes over himself between his legs, and he thinks, arches forward a little, almost shyly.  
It’s been months since he touched himself.  
His toes curl as the towel runs over him, and he frowns, closing his eyes. He is scared to see how he will feel, if he’s still the same. He doesn’t know why, and it scares him. He forgets it immediately, and finishes drying off with tired arms and drops the towel to the floor.  
He bends to pick up his ruined jeans and shirt, and tosses them in the tub. The only clothes he has left is a pair of sweat pants out in the room, nothing else. When he steps out of the cold bathroom, met with the hot air of his bedroom, the sun is beginning to shine its light blues and pinks through the curtain. He walks to the dresser and finds his pants in a bundle and puts them on over himself, and stands a second. He finally notices just how bad of condition his room was really in, and he grimaces at the sight of countless bottles, glass, and dust all over. He turns to the bed, and sees the mess he’s left behind on the sheets and mattress. He looks away, the window catching his attention once more.  
The sky behind the curtain calls to him. The glowing rim from behind it glistening in his tired eyes as he stares at it. Warren lifts a hand, and pushes it up. The pale light of the dawn sky melts into his room in a lilac glow, and he stares out over the trees and landscape before him. He’s glad he was put in one of the upper floors, as he can see the wide horizon as the sun rises out of sight and bathes the land in a purple and pink glow.  
And all he can think about is how much he wants to fly. How much he misses that familiar wind and odd weightlessness, nothing but his feathers at his side. Warren stands, and dreams out the window of his lost heaven.  
He misses the sky. And the sky misses him too.  
***  
Warren couldn’t take the reek of vomit and sweat in his room any longer, and opened his door. He had taken all of the sheets and mattress cover off the bed and bundled them up, putting them on the floor. The mattress was still terribly filthy and ruined, and he knew he had to get rid of it. He peered out into the halls, some students looking at him strangely for being shirtless, and he walked out. He kept to the wall and his gaze on the floor as he quickly made his way to the closest room he knew. He didn’t want to tell the professor or Hank, that would make him weak in their eyes; a child needing to be taken care of. He debated Ororo, but her room was too far away for him to make it with out being questioned or ordered to be dressed properly.  
which left him with the only other room he knew of- Kurt. Ororo had taken him there once when she was retrieving him for lunch, and he remembered the location and number easily.  
He knew the telelporter wasn’t scared of him or angry, he was way too nice for that Warren relaized. But this would be hard. His room was just a few down from Warrens, and the angel made it there without any trouble. He stood infront of the familiar door, and raised his hand to kock on it firmly. He looked around, the few students passing by paying no attention to him. The door clicked open just a few seconds later, and Warren was met with Kurts tired face, messy hair, and confused eyes.  
“Engel?” He asked and looked at Warren with concern.  
“I need your help.” Warren hated the words, but kept quiet.  
“Uh… okay,” Kurt said at equal volume, and Warren led him out and down the hall to his room. Kurt was still in his pajamas, and Warren tried not to stare at how they hung on him in a child-like way.  
Dman, he was so innocent Warren doesn’t know how Kurt beat him twice.  
He stopped the blue mutant outside of his door, and looked down. “You promise you won’t say shit?” Warren looked at him again with stern eyes.  
Kurt looked as if he wanted to protest and ask questions, but he said nothing nd nodded. When it came time for Warren to actually open the door, he paused. Why did he need Kurt again? Oh yeah, he had a pile of puke covered sheets and a mattress soaked with vomit, not to mention broken glass and spilt vodka on the floor.  
Great.  
He shook his head, Kurt noticing his unease, and shoved Kurt inside after whiping the door open. The German gasped as the door shut behind them and his hand shot to cover his mouth and nose.  
“Varren, vhat did you do!?” He said through his fingers. Warren gripped his sweatpants with his twitchy hands and walked to stand in front of the bed Kurt was staring at with sad eyes.  
He expected Kurt to just bamf right out- and God, did Kurt want to, but he stayed. He knew Warren needed help. Anyone would need help with this.  
So he looks up at Warren and sees how much the angel is hurting, and puts his hand down, ignoring the burning in his nose. “Vhat do you need?” His tail sways unhapily behind him, curling with displeasure.  
“I just need this gone-” Warren looks at the bed and back at Kurt, never letting his hard look fade. Kurt hesitates, then nodds.  
“Okay, ja… uh,” He looks at the mattress and tries to look away from the mess and sheets. He grabs each, and is gone in a rattle of dark smoke. Warren steps back as the bed disappears, and when Kurt returns he looks a little more relaxed. He looks up at Warren, and Warren doesn’t ask where he went with them. He just sighs and lets go of his pants. This moment will be forgotten in a few minutes anyway.  
“Thanks, you can go now,” he says and walks to the door, stepping over the trash on the floor.  
“But von’t you need another one!?” Kurt looks at him with concern and stays put where he stands.  
“I’ll think of something, forget about it.” Warren says and goes to open the door but is stopped again by Kurt.  
“It is so… messy in here, vhy don’t you at least open zhe vindow, let zhe breeze in?” He asks shyly, his hands twitching as Warrens did. And Warren can see that the kid really does mean well; really is worried about him. Which scares Warren even more. He wasn’t expecting Kurt to actually stay and care about him.  
It’s sometime between then and Warrens dumbfounded expression forming at Kurt giving a damn about him, that Kurt looks down to see the pile of feathers shoved into the corner on the floor. Kurt stops, face going blank and mouth ajar. He sees the small, recgonizable half grown freathers and larger, more developed ones, and the small scabs at the each of each one. Kurt stares, hands falling limp along with his tail and Warren feels his heart begin to race. Kurt cries, a tear rolling down his cheek as his eyelids falter, and Warren panicks. “Kurt, it’s fine just-” Hes cut off suddenly at the feeling of two thin arms squeezing tightly around his torso, a boney chest pressed against his, and a strong head on his shoulder.  
Kurt is practically racking with sobs, and hugs Warren like a lifeline. Warren stands, his heart frozen and his head suddenly fuzzy at the feeling of being held.  
He hasn’t been hugged in years, he realizes.  
kurt pulls back to look at Warren with teary yellow eyes, and his lip quivers. “Did you do zhat?” He says in a forced whisper, voice cracking.  
Warren nods slowly, and feels his hand moving up to rest on Kurts shoulders. “But vhy!? Vhy vould you do that!?” Kurt chokes out and pleads Warren.  
It is in this moment of life jerking realization that Warren knows why he’s here. Why he ran away from his father. Why he fought in the cage with no hope of anything else. Why he fought with Apocalypse. Why he survived that god awful plsne crash. Why he didn’t asphyxiate on his own vomit and go on the bed all those nights. Why he’s still standing, trying so hard to keep going at the life he doesn’t understand.  
It was because this is where he belonged.  
In this school, with these mutants. His wings tingle behind him, and as Kurt whispers soothing promises to him in German and holds Warren as the angel sobbs into Kurts neck, he promises himself that he will never pull another feather out again.  
Because he had friends now. Friends that cared about him. And for the first time since Warren was eleven years old -he remembers now- when his wings grew in and his parents turned against him, he let himself be held and comforted. Warrens stomach no longer burned with days regret and nights of loneliness. His eyes now cried tears of relief and hope. His chest filled with the blanket of security that he thought he lost oh long ago. For once, he burries his nose in the sent of someone else and their strength and comfort, instead of his own sorrow and sickness.  
And his wings felt strong again. Promising that they would heal and carry him up to the clouds once more.   
The sun shone bright onto Warrens back as Kurt held his crying head against his chest, he doesn’t know how it opened, but Warren knows it is speaking to him.  
Knew that things were going to be okay.  
He may not be able to fly yet, but that was okay. The sky would wait for him. However long it takes.  
Because the sky had its angel back, and it would not lose him again.


End file.
